


Flame Rising

by Hay_Bails



Series: Sol [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossdressing, Crossdressing Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:22:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1851151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hay_Bails/pseuds/Hay_Bails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two months into Sherlock and John's budding relationship, a spot of trouble arises. John Watson comforts his detective.</p><p>To be read as a continuation of 'Like Fire.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flame Rising

Sherlock pouted on the sofa. He was turned inward, so that all John could see of him was his back.

John sighed.

“What’s got you all in a strop today?”

He got no response. _Figures,_ he thought.

It had been roughly two months since John had encountered Sherlock’s feminine side – ‘Mystique,’ he had called himself, John remembered with amusement. Of course he had. Always the drama queen, was his Sherlock.

 _His_ Sherlock.

 John’s mouth quirked into a small grin as he took in the sight of his new boyfriend curled up shirtless on the couch, sinewy muscles taut along his back and shoulders, highlighted by the lacy brassiere he wore.

Two months, and Sherlock had been as good as his word. John would not date a man – so he dressed as a woman. John knew it couldn’t have been easy for him, especially in public. Still, the detective never once complained about the odd looks he got from Scotland Yard and all the rest of London. In fact, the only person who _hadn’t_ made a comment on Sherlock’s new choice of attire was his older brother Mycroft.

All the same, day in and day out, Sherlock ignored the taunts, scowls, and catcalls, focusing instead on pleasing John as best he could.

Still, John thought, it must get to him, on some level.

He approached the younger man, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, unconsciously rubbing over the bra strap with a thumb. “Hey.”

Sherlock gave no response. He curled up a little tighter.

“What’s the matter, ‘Lock?” John asked softly, his hand moving in reassuring circles.

“It’s nothing,” was the muffled response he received.

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

Sherlock took in a deep shuddering breath, muscles tensing. “It’s _fine_ , John. Leave me.” His voice broke on the last word. John suspected he was crying.

“Sherlock?” he asked worriedly. Sherlock Holmes did not cry, not for anything. Except…

“They said I don’t deserve you.”

John’s heart plummeted. “Who said you don’t deserve me?”

Sherlock pulled in a sharp breath, quite obviously crying now. He shook his head.

“Sherlock…” John whispered.

He grasped the man’s shoulders, and pulled him up just enough so that he could sit down on the sofa with him. The younger man curled around him, burying his face in the soldier’s stomach.

“They were… al-almost certainly correct,” he said, voice strained.

 John squeezed him.

“Nope,” he said, readying himself for the one argument he would always have with his detective. “They were wrong, Sherlock. Don’t you _ever_ listen to them. Whoever it was obviously doesn’t know the first thing about you.”

“Sociopath.”

“ _Kind.”_

“Arrogant.”

“ _Selfless.”_

“Distant.”

“ _Loving._ Are you going to make me do this with you for the rest of the afternoon?” John’s hand found its way into raven-coloured hair, smoothing and stroking.

Sherlock made a distressed sound.

“Sh,” John soothed. He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back. Hands clutched at his shirt. He let them.

“Now,” John said, collecting his thoughts. “You listen to me, you silly man. Remember when we first met? How I was so caught up in the war and my nightmares that I thought I’d never feel alive again?”

A reluctant “hmm” floated up to him.

“You saved me from that. You gave me my leg back. And you took me into your home when no one else would have me. If anything, you deserve _better_ than me, Sherlock. You deserve so much.” John looked fondly back down at the man burrowed in his chest. He dropped a kiss on the top of his head.

“But you’re so much b-better than I am,” the detective said, simply and plaintively.

John sighed.

“Holmes, between the two of us, our faults run deeper than Mycroft’s pockets.”

Sherlock sniffed.

“If you really think I’m going to leave you because some idiot thinks our relationship is unorthodox, then you’re sorely mistaken,” John continued, following Sherlock’s train of thought perfectly even as Sherlock said nothing at all.

The younger man’s arms wound their way around John’s torso in response.

“There. Not so bad, is it?” John soothed, letting the detective adjust his position.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was making a valiant effort to quell his tears.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “This is pathetic of me.”

“Oh, ‘Lock, you are anything but pathetic.”

The doctor’s hand stroked absentmindedly down Sherlock’s neck and onto the soft skin of his back. Sherlock shivered, gooseflesh prickling on his arms at the touch.

John’s lips quirked up. “Does that feel nice?” he asked, repeating the motion. Sherlock shivered once more, and tightened his hold.

John huffed a small laugh, and stroked the man’s neck a third time. “Looks like I’ve found your weakness,” he said with a grin.

“John,” Sherlock moaned piteously.

“I’m here, love,” he responded, breathing in deeply the scent of that raven-black hair. “Right here.”

That statement, more than anything else, seemed to do the trick. The detective sagged against the soldier, falling into his warmth.

“That’s it,” John said encouragingly. He pulled Sherlock even closer, keeping one hand firmly on the small of his back.

Sherlock closed his eyes, letting John’s other hand move soothingly across his shoulder blades. John hesitated only a moment upon encountering a bra strap a second time before moving his fingers underneath.

“May I?” he asked cautiously, as Sherlock’s breathing hitched.

“Yes,” came the soft reply, so quiet John was half-afraid he hadn’t heard properly. All the same, his hand wandered until it came to the clasp of the lacy garment. His fingers worked deftly, freeing Sherlock’s upper torso of the dark pink underthing smoothly and efficiently. Light red lines appeared on the younger man’s pale skin where the bra had been pressing at his flesh. John rubbed at them tenderly.

“I bet that feels much better,” he said, heart racing despite the fact that he had seen Sherlock’s bare chest before.

Sherlock nodded his assent, leaning back momentarily to slide the straps down off of his arms, tossing the bra aside. He sighed, falling back into John’s open arms.

John marveled at the sight of him. Only two months, and yet he had become so accustomed to the sight of Sherlock in women’s clothing that seeing him without was strange and, in a way, exciting. It was almost erotic, he considered, if you looked at it from the right angle.

Still, that wasn’t a path he was quite ready to go down yet, and he pushed the thought aside, telling himself to enjoy this moment just as it was. Sherlock was very warm, and not as bony as he looked, if he was honest. In fact, John found himself enjoying the hard lines of his boyfriend’s body these days – there was so much to explore, so much that was softened and rounded on a woman’s body, whereas on Sherlock’s…

He shook his head ever so slightly. _Not gay,_ he reminded himself, almost reluctantly. _Not. Bliddy. Gay._

Sherlock curled around him like a cat, finding the warmest bits of John’s body and cuddling as close as he could. He snuffled once or twice more before finally relaxing fully, his head dropping neatly into the curve between John’s shoulder and neck.

Regardless of his sexual orientation, John supposed that this bit was quite nice – holding each other. Holding Sherlock had become one of his favorite activities of late. The detective didn’t quite fit into his arms the same way a woman did, but in a way, it was better than anything any of his past girlfriends had been able to give him. John was finding, perhaps to his dismay, that he was an extremely cuddly person, once one got past the military tendencies.

Sherlock, he suspected, had seen it all along. He also suspected that Sherlock had not had much opportunity to be held at any point in his past, and was only just making up for it.

“You are a leech,” John had said jokingly the first morning he had woken up with the detective tangled around him in knots. Sherlock had said nothing, but tightened his hold ever so slightly, only relaxing when John did the same.

Still, it was nice, John reflected, to be _needed_ in such a way.

He shepherded his thoughts back to the present, and back to the man who was currently occupying much of his person.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked him, continuing to stroke his hair.

“Mm-hmm…” Sherlock hummed.

“Is that a ‘yes’ mm-hm, or a ‘no’ mm-hm?”

“Both.” The word vibrated pleasantly against John’s collarbone.

“Care to elaborate?”

Sherlock breathed deeply. “It’s not something that really goes away, John,” he said after a few moments. “It’s a thought that continues to plague my mind every time I see you.”

“That you don’t deserve me?”

“Yes, John.” Pale white fingers curled into the fabric of a beige jumper.

“Have you tried looking at it logically?”

He could feel Sherlock’s glare. “John, logic is my profession, not something I employ merely once or twice a day like the rest of you.”

John huffed a small laugh. “Fair point. But truly, ‘Lock... you can’t see that I need you, just as much as you need me?”

Sherlock was frustrated, John could tell. But not with him – he was frustrated with himself for not being able to marshal his feelings. “I see it, and I recognize it, and yet fear abides.”

“What are you so afraid of?”

“Losing you.” The answer came sincerely, and without pause.

“Hm,” John said, collecting his thoughts. He hugged his boyfriend. “I don’t plan on leaving, you know.”

“I know.” John heard the uncertainty behind those two words. He sighed.

“I also do not plan on being shot, stabbed, kidnapped, taken hostage, burned, maimed, killed, or otherwise incapacitated.”

“I know.” There was that uncertainty again.

“You could do nothing to make me stop loving you,” he said finally. Sherlock perked up, lifting his head to face John.

“You mean it?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing, Sherlock.”

“Eyeballs in the refrigerator?”

“Eyeball- Sherlock.”

“Past criminal record?”

“Sherlock.”

“I have a tattoo.”

“ _Sher_ lock.”

“I forget birthdays.”

“ _Sherlock!_ ” John laughed, and sat up properly, pulling the younger man with him to plant a short, chaste kiss on his lips. “I love you,” he said warmly, “and I always will.”

Sherlock smiled, and hugged his doctor. John grinned back.

“Seriously, though, you have a tattoo?”

“I wanted to gauge your reaction.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Would you love me any less if the answer was yes?”

“ _No,_ Sherlock.”

“…I don’t have a tattoo.”

“For Christ’s…” John laughed openly. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”


End file.
